An Apple a Day and other Sayings
by PaiPerMeent
Summary: A collection of short stories, one-shots and drabbles inspired by quotes about Medicine, Doctors, and health in general. "T" for language, slash, and adult topics.
1. An apple a Day

**A/N: **I am utterly incapable of writing fluff... Also, this is the beginning of a series of drabbles and such. Each one will be based on a different doctor saying. c: If you have any ideas or requests for a specific saying, feel free to leave a comment or shoot me a message! Reviews are, most certainly, love!

**Word Count:** 1,157

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock Holmes and Watson were created by the most fantastic Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. These two were dreamed up in modern day by the wondeful Steven Moffat. This little scenario was dreamed up by yours truly.

**Doctor saying: **"An apple a day keeps the doctor away," - Old Welsh proverb

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><p>"Sherlock!" I called out. My arms were full of groceries in paper bags, which didn't have handles. "Sherlock!" No answer. Dammit. I swung back my right leg and kicked the door to try to get his attention, but succeeded mainly in just hurting my toes. Another moment passed and there was no Sherlock. I kicked the door again. I pressed my ear against the wood of the door and heard some stirring. After a few more seconds, I decided to give the door another kick. Just as I was swinging my leg forward, the door opened. I had to throw myself off balance so I wouldn't kick him in the shin, as much as he deserved it.<p>

Sherlock stood there, blocking the doorway, smiling. It was a little strange to see him in a pleasant mood. "Move, please." I requested. He side-stepped and swept his arm in a sarcastic gesture of welcome. On my way in to the flat, I glared at him. He could have opened the door a little faster. And been in a less cheery mood.

I started to make my way to the kitchen, but the way was blockaded with old magazines, yellow papers, and moldy test-tubes. I vaguely wondered why the test-tubes weren't in the kitchen. When I realized I'd thought that, I checked myself and thought that test-tubes, moldy or not, don't really belong in a flat at all. Looking around the kitchen, I spotted a section of counter that wasn't littered with human body parts and experiments that look they belonged in a Science fiction movie.

I heard Sherlock step in to the kitchen as I was unloading the groceries. I took out a large bag just as Sherlock put his chin on my shoulder. It felt oddly condescending that he had to slouch to do this.

"Apples?" He asked. I nodded as I pushed his head off of my shoulder. The gesture didn't seem to deter him, as he reached through the space between my arms and chest and opened the bag of fruit. I threw my hands in the air to try to make it less awkward. It didn't really help, though, as he soon placed his chin back on my shoulder.

He took one of the fruits in one hand and stepped away from me. "Apples are truly one of the most wonderful foods." He started. I was a little puzzled, as I remembered Lestrade had just been leaving when I woke up this morning.

"I thought you didn't eat when you were on a case?" I asked.

He ignored me completely by taking a bit of his apple.

"Apples are high in Vitamin C, and low in calories. They prevent heart disease, and tooth decay." He took another, rather large, bite of his apple. Then he began speaking through the chewing. Which was rather disgusting to watch. "They also protect your brain from various degenerative diseases," he pointed to the side of his head. "And a certain study suggests they may help with Asthma-related problems," he walked over to me and placed the almost-finished apple in front of my mouth. "Want a bite?"

"Er, no thanks." I pushed his apple away and wiped the juice on my jumper. "I can get my own." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and walked in to the living room, plopping down on the sofa.

I sniffed my fingers, where I could feel them getting sticky despite my best efforts. They smelled great. How long had it been since I'd had an apple anyway? If I needed to ask myself, it was too long ago. I took and apple from the bag and took a big bite, wiping the juice off my chin with the back of my hand. It was like Heaven! I scratched my cheek with my free hand.

Half-way through my apple, my cheeks really started to itch. Then I felt my tongue begin to swell. "Oh, thit." I dropped the apple on the ground and felt around my face with my hands. Hives! I was having an allergic reaction!

I stumbled over the make-shift barricade and in to the living room, where Sherlock was. "Thurlawk!" He looked up from his magazine and was instantly alarmed. "Dew we haff enny antha-hithameenth?" I was sure I already knew the answer.

"We need to get you to a hospital," he concluded quickly, ushering me out the front door as fast as he could. I was running behind him, when my lips started itching. I knew I shouldn't be itching, but dammit! I itched so bad. Sherlock looked behind him when he realized I wasn't there and ran back to me, grabbing my hand and practically pulling me the rest of the way.

I remember wondering why we didn't hire a cab. Not that it mattered, I was tired and out of breath when we got to the hospital, but it was probably faster than if we had hired a cab. The doctor on duty did exactly what I would have done, he administered an anti-histamine by injection. My tongue was too swollen to be able to swallow a pill. After the drugs took effect, the doctor asked if anything like this had happened to me before, I told him about when I was in college and the Birch trees there had created a similar reaction.

Sherlock and I weren't there very long, as the drug took effect in a little over half an hour. It was a pleasant walk back to the flat. We were almost half-way there when Sherlock suddenly started laughing hysterically. I must have looked at him like he was insane, because when he looked over at me a fresh fit of laughter shook him.

"What's so funny?" I asked as his laughter began to subside. I was convinced he was going to start in with a fresh fit, but then he let out a happy sigh and answered my question.

"An apple a day, huh?" It took a second for me to understand what he meant. I started laughing as soon as I got it. He joined in and we must have looked half-mad, walking down the streets of London laughing like lunatics.

When we got to out flat we were shedding the last bits of laughter from ourselves. Sherlock went in to the kitchen and picked up my half-eaten apple before tossing it in the garbage. He grabbed a bottle of mouth-wash I'd gotten on a whim and took a quick swig. I chalked it up to an oddity of his, but he soon proved me wrong.

He sauntered- honestly, that's the only accurate way to describe it- over to me and kissed me full on the lips. I punched him in the jaw, and saw his lip had been split in the process. We took another trip to the Hospital, where Sherlock was fixed with seven stitches, and told to remain on a liquid diet.


	2. Just What the Doctor Ordered

**A/N:** I promise the next chapter will have a more original saying! But this scene is what I'd pictured, even before the Apple a Day. Enjoy a little bit of fluff this time! Yay, no punching! :D Review if there's a specific quote or saying you'd like me to use! c:

**Word Count:** 701

**Idiom: **"Just what the Doctor Ordered"

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><p>Something about the window of this Italian diner had caught Sherlock's eye. He looked at John expectantly and cocked his head towards the door. It had been two days since Sherlock had eaten a decent meal, due to several cases that presented themselves one after the other.<p>

John seemed relieved that his boyfriend was finally going to eat something. He smiled before agreeing with the taller man. A small restaurant like this would be a great place for dinner. Sherlock reached for the door handle at the same time John did, but didn't let go of it when their hands touched. He then opened the door the rest of the way to let the shorter man in first.

The atmosphere inside was a bit predictable. Fluorescent lights, cheap checkered table cloths, and booths that looked like they'd seen war. Each table was outfitted with its own Parmesan, salt, pepper, and red pepper shakers. There was a spot for fountain drinks and plastic cutlery towards the back of the establishment.

Sherlock led John easily to the table by the window that had originally drawn his eye. It was a half-sized booth that looked like it had seen the most wear and tear. Probably because of the view the window commanded. There were hardly any buildings on the opposing street, and the night sky was quite clear from the vantage point. The moon, which was waning at the time, was visible. Even through the obnoxious lights, the scene was a beautiful one.

Before sitting down, John looked around for two menu's, but was called back to the table by Sherlock, who had found them successfully. They were printed on cheap paper, and were pressed on top of the ugly table cloth, underneath a rather thick piece of glass that was secured by several industrial strength nails. Sherlock told John that's how he decided this was going to be where they had their dinner. The combination of the glass, the screws, and the tired-looking booth meant the business was doing well and would, most likely, have more-than satisfactory food. John was impressed, as he usually was, even after the thought process was explained.

The server appeared and asked the two what they would like to drink. When they both tried to answer at the same time, they laughed nervously and insisted the other go first. Their server seemed rather annoyed. Eventually, John ordered first, with Sherlock ordering the same.

"Is this our first real date?" John asked, laughing at the thought. They'd been lovers for around a year now, and John couldn't recall any sort-of date they'd been on. His mouth was feeling unusually dry, so he took a sip of the soft drink he'd ordered. It didn't seem to help.

Sherlock looked him head to mid-chest before answering, "Is chasing murderous sailors not considered a date?" He grinned at his attempt at wit. John chuckled before taking another sip. Sherlock decided to do the same, before placing his hand across the table. John took the opportunity to seize it lightly. "No, I would consider this our second."

"Second? Am I missing something?" John asked, confusion drawing his brows to a line.

Sherlock's grin widened before he spoke again. "Obviously. You can't tell me you've forgotten Angelo's? We even had a candle." John let out a hearty laugh.

"God, I couldn't stand you then." Then, after a moment of thought, "Well, I could obviously _stand_ you, but you were definitely annoying. And so damn interesting. Of course, you left me at the crime scene when we first," John was silenced by two fingers tilting his chin upwards. Sherlock's lips were on his own, and gone just as quickly. John almost wondered if he'd imagined it.

Sherlock's look of contentment told him he hadn't. The moment was so soft and unlike the usual Sherlock, that John was afraid the other might have a fever. Then the food seemed to materialize in front of them. John heard the server ask them if everything was alright, but Sherlock hadn't. Nonetheless, he answered, staring at John as he did so.

"Just what the doctor ordered."


	3. No Curing a man in Health

**A/N: **Inspired by my lovely older sister! She wondered what it was everyone saw when they saw Sherlock and John... I wanted to find a way to fit this persepective in to a story, so I did! c: I actually like a lot... Not sure why. I just do.

**Word Count:** 1,405

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock Holmes and Watson were created by the most fantastic Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. These two were dreamed up in modern day by the wondeful Steven Moffat. This little scenario was dreamed up by yours truly.

**Doctor saying: **"There is no curing a sick man who believes himself to be in health," Henry Amiel

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><p>"I assure you, we're doing everything we can to find your daughter, sir." The man on the phone informed me. My Abigail, my dear angel!, had been gone for three long days. I knew the police were doing everything possible, but it wasn't enough. Thinking of my daughter made my breath catch in my throat, and a wave of nausea settled on me. I felt like my heart had been ripped out of me and stabbed.<p>

"I understand, thank you, Officer-?"

"Detective Inspector. Lestrade." He corrected patiently. He probably got that mix up a lot.

"Detective Inspector," I let out the small breathe I'd been holding all day. "Do you have any children, Detective Inspector?" He told me he didn't, but he knew exactly where I was going with this, and to get out a pen and paper. All I could find was an old receipt and a pencil stub, but I asked him to continue anyway. He then gave me the address and directions to a nearby detective. Best in the business, he promised.

I held the piece of paper closely to me, and navigated the confusing streets of London until I found Baker Street. When I saw the "221B" on a door, hope flitted through my chest. It was the first step -besides contacting the police, who seemed incompetent- to finding Abigail. I knocked on the wood impatiently, but vaguely wondered if British people used knockers since there was one on the door.

My train of thought stopped there as a short woman answered, introducing herself as Mrs. Hudson. I wanted to ask her if it was like the river, but wasn't sure if there was a Hudson River in England, so I stayed quiet. "You here for Sherlock, then?" She asked as I began to take off my jacket.

"Yes, ma'am. Is he home?" That feeling of nausea came over me again as the fear that he wasn't home sunk its fangs in to my mind. Thankfully, the woman told me he was and to just go up those stairs, right there, and that is where I could find him. "Thank you, so much." I shook her hand and planted a kiss on her cheek out of gratitude. She blushed and held her hand to her cheek before shooing me up the stairs.

I knocked a few times, and then, half a second later, a few more times. I was about to knock again when the door was opened by a short man with blondish hair. He looked at me with an obvious look of annoyance. Maybe I'd disturbed tea time?

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" I asked, clutching the paper tightly in my fist. The returning look I got told me he wasn't.

"I'm sorry. I'm sure whatever you have to say is urgent, but he's not-"

"John!" Yelled a second voice. The second voice sneezed. "John, who's at the door?"

The short man, John, glared behind him in the direction of the voice. Looking over Johns shoulder, I saw a man with black hair lounging on a couch. He had sharp features and would probably be considered handsome. Just as John was going to talk again, the man on the couch started hacking up a lung. All the coughing made me a little uncomfortable, but I wasn't about to back away when the stakes were this high.

"You already said you wouldn't take a case, Sherlock." So that was the detective? "Finish your soup!" He ordered. Sherlock ignored his soup in favor of his phone.

"Mr. Holmes?" I called, looking over John's shoulder. The man turned to look at me, and I felt a chill run down my spine. If he was a detective, he definitely wasn't a very happy one. I manned up and continued talking. "My daughter has been missing for three days now." Just as I finished, John began:

"No, no. He's not taking,"

But was interrupted by Mr. Holmes saying, "Let the poor man in! I'm in need of a little brainwork!"

Then we were all trying to talk over each other:

I said: "I've got plenty of,"

John said: "You're sick, you can't take any,"

Mr. Holmes said: "Do I look sick, John? Let him in!"

I said: "Please, I won't stay longer than an hour,"

As mine and Mr. Holmes' voices got louder, John looked like he was about to explode. He finally pinched the bridge of his nose as the detective sneezed and I became quiet.

"Fine, ok." He opened the door fully for me and looked over at the other man. "One. Hour." The way John said this reminded me of how my mom would boss around my dad when I was a child. Were the two lovers? I kept my mouth shut on the question, as I had a more important reason to be here than to peer in to the lives of two gay men. Then John walked in to the kitchen and I draped my jacket over my arm. The apartment smelled horrible. There were papers everywhere, and I'm pretty sure I saw the hand of a black man on the kitchen counter.

"Would you be so good as to make our," he paused to cough, "ahem. Our visitor a cup of coffee." It didn't strike me as odd that he knew I'd wanted coffee at the time. I was used to the usual, "Coffee? Soda? Water?" that was offered in America. He motioned to a chair that was only half way covered in trash. I scooched it out of my way and sat down. As soon as I did, I felt like a horrible father. Was Abigail sitting down peacefully like I was? Was she ok? I wanted to cry right then, but I brushed away the feeling by clearing my throat.

"When do you return to Florida, Mr. Alan?" He asked. I was dumbstruck at his question.

"How did you-?" I asked, looking to where the shorter man was standing in the kitchen. Mr. Holmes laughed weakly before waving off my question, insisting that it was his job to know these things. I think he might have gone on about more things if his lover hadn't given him a 'get on with it' look when he handed me my cup of coffee. John then handed a mug to Mr. Holmes, who took a quick sip. I assumed it was coffee in Mr. Holmes' cup as well, all of Abigail's tea sets had dainty little cups.

"Honey? Honestly?" Honey? So I was right. They must be lovers. Mr. Holmes made a face before setting the mug on the coffee table in front of him. He reclined even further, steepled his fingers, closed his eyes, and asked me to begin my story.

"My daughter and I have been in London for five days..."

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><p>An hour and a half later, Mr. Alan left mine and John's flat. I was able to clear up his case with relative ease, pocket a fee I didn't usually ask for, and successfully ignore the tea, soup, and cold medicine John had sent my way. I also overheard what he had asked John as he left.<p>

"You look rather flustered, John. Is the thought of being reunited with his daughter such good news to you?" I teased, then I sneezed. Maybe I was getting a cold. No, no. I hadn't over-exerted myself in a little over a month. I sneezed again.

"Bless you," John said. Then I realized he hadn't actually said that the many times I had sneezed throughout the day.

"Hand me a tissue, John." He sighed before following my command. "I'm surprised you haven't asked about what Mr. Alan said."

"Why does everyone think we're shagging?" He asked quickly, sounding rather annoyed. He shook his head before going to make himself a sandwich and tea. John enjoyed tea when he was confused.

"If I warm up that soup, will you actually eat it?" He asked. He'd had to move an experiment out of the microwave earlier, and he was probably looking forward to getting it back out of sight. I held my bowl up high, so that he could see I did want it warmed up. He came by quickly to take it from my hands.

"If you gave me a spoon. And some tea, too, if you don't mind. But use sugar this time, not honey."


	4. Where a Man feels Pain

**A/N:** A little update. I had a lot of fun writing in the second person. Maybe the next one I'll try will be 2nd from Sherlock's point of view? Hopefully the next one will be a little lighter. Who knows? Anyway, reviews are always loved!

**Word Count:** 659

**Proverb: **"Where a man feels pain, he lays his hand." - Dutch Proverb

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><p>Something about the way you look today has set my heart to pounding. You're not even in a good mood today. You sulk over your experiments, you shout at the tele, you criticize my blog, and you're trying to look as broody as possible. It's not a side you've never shown, it's probably the part of you you're most comfortable with. It's just... you. Being you. You aren't acting, you're not on the scent of a clue, you're just behaving like a normal person. For the most part.<p>

You're in the kitchen now, trying to figure out which finger you should prick for a blood sample. They're all stained with God knows what. You make a face of discontent before settling on your left hand little finger. You have a surplus of alcohol wipes around you, but you take your lancing device (even though you don't need to test your blood-sugar) and draw blood without sanitizing it. Knowing you, you probably think the alcohol will disturb the experiment. One of these days I hope you get an infection so you'll start taking better care of yourself.

You smear the blood on a swab and let it rest in your petri dish for a moment. You flip it upside-down and put it in the microwave. I know you're about to tell me something, so I turn back to my computer. "John!" You yell. I make a noise like I'm annoyed at the interruption before facing you. "Don't take anything out of the microwave. Don't even open the door!" You don't ask if it's alright, you don't even give an "ok?" at the end. You look at me expectantly, before I assure you I won't. A bit of the annoyed look you've been wearing all day fades away.

Then you're in the living room, grabbing your coat and your scarf. You don't give an explanation, you just open the door and run off. Maybe you're out for a nice stroll, maybe you're off to solve a case. Maybe you're off to face some unnameable danger. Nobody can ever tell what's on your mind. Except your brother. Sometimes, I can tell your emotions. Like the way your nostrils flare when you are excited by a case. Or how your eye brows wrinkle when I don't understand what you're trying to say. What I really love is what your eyes are wide, there's the promise of a smile on your lips, and your ears move a bit. That look tells me you hope I comprehend where you're going, and then, when I do, you grin.

I don't know if that look is that you're proud of me, or if you're proud of yourself. Is the smile because you think my intelligence is gradually increasing? Or do you feel some happiness because you, as a teacher, have done such a fantastic job of teaching me, your pupil? Either way, you're proud. And the way you look fills me with pride in myself.

I'm about to finish my post when you send me a text. One word and your initials. "Danger. -SH" You don't even have the decency to tell me where you are, only that you need my help. I open a new tab and go to your website, looking for any clue I can. I see your latest post and my hand flies to my chest. My heart feels like it's sinking, swimming, and I've stopped breathing. I slam the lid shut, run up to my room for my gun, and am out the door of our flat. With any luck at all this pain you always seem to cause me will subside when I see you're alright. Because you have to be alright.

You have to be.


	5. To Save a Man's Life

**A/N: **Well, after much waiting I have updated this! I had a bit of trouble with this one, it didn't come as easily as John's did. Maybe it's just 'cause there's a bit of action in it? I'm not sure. Anyway! I'm working on a new fic, of how Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson met. I've only written two chapters, but I won't publish it until I actually crank them all out. If anyone would be willing to brit-pick for me, just shoot me a private message! Anyway, enjoy!

**Word Count:** 1,007

**Saying: **"To save a man's life against his will is the same as killing him." - Horace

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><p>I know you've received my text. It's all a matter of time before you show up. I'm hiding in a bush, watching a man inside his house act like a wild animal. I hear fast-paced steps, and then a knock at the front door. Oh, God. That's not you, is it? A quick glance over the bush and I see you. Quickly, I pull you in to the bush with me. You let out a startled yelp, but I put my hand over your mouth to silence you. Your eyes are wide, and although most of your appearance shows fear and concern, underneath all that you're still excited.<p>

I take my hand from your mouth and ask in a whisper if you've brought your gun. You pull it out, just a little, from your pocket. You don't understand what's going on. But you want to. I'll have to explain it all later, when the danger is gone. I gesture for you to look in the window with me. We both peer above the window sill and see a man scratching at his wall. Your fear and excitement levels both shoot up. You're breathing through your mouth, and your eyes are wide open. I slip out of the bush, and in to the back lawn.

You follow me quickly, taking your gun out of your pocket, and have it in your hands as you sneak around the side of the house with me. I see an open window a little farther down, and when I look over to it and back at you, you know that I want us to get in through there. You walk ahead of me, staying low to the ground. I watch as you glance through the opening in the window. You are, apparently, satisfied that it's safe to go in. You open the window the rest of the way, very silently, and I remove the screen for you. I motion for you to go in first, I place the screen against the house and follow.

Once inside, I notice you're waiting for me by the wrong door. I point to the door on the opposite side of the room and you, in your low stance, walk over there. I slowly, very slowly, crack the door open. I don't want to make any noises that will set the man in the other room off.

He hears anyway.

Not a moment passes before he's at the door, slamming himself against it and you against the wall. Against. The. Wall. I feel angry, very angry, that the man has just over powered you like that, but I can't just attack him. I take a quick glance over you, your head, your face, and am satisfied that you aren't bleeding, or in immediate danger. You are unconscious. I jump at the large man with every intent of doing bodily harm.

He, however, is stronger than I am. Much stronger than you are. He's like an ape. Before I can even touch me he's already seized me by the wrist and thrown me on to you. Your nose presses in to my back, and I'm afraid your nose might be broken. I roll over and check. No, your nose isn't broken. Thank god. I let out a sigh of relief and strain to get back on my feet. Where is that syringe? I'm sure I put it in my pocket...

The man somehow moves his bulk over to where I am barely standing, searching for that sedative. He lets out an inhuman (that's idiotic, of course it's human. He's human) shout, baring all of his teeth and is poised to punch me clear across the face, across the room, hell probably through the wall.

What should be the sound of my jaw breaking is replaced by the sound of a hand-gun firing. You're awake! I look down and see you've shot the man in the shoulder, and I wonder if you're projecting a bit? The man is in pain, and he should be down for good, but he gets up again. The look on your face is sheer awe, but you can handle this. You let out two more rounds from your hand-gun and, when he is definitely not going to come back up, you rush towards him, taking off your jacket.

You ask me to call an ambulance, but I see writing just above his shirt collar. I pull it down, and you see the same words that I do. "Do Not Resuscitate." You make a sound that's a mix of despair and all the air from your lungs. It's not a sound I ever want to hear again. You ask "why?" Over and over again you ask me, yourself, the man, God, and who knows who else "why?" The Universe doesn't have an answer for you.

I don't have an answer for you.

Later, when we're alone and the police have cleaned up the mess, I tell you what I know about that man. How he believed himself a wild animal, or one of himselves to be such. I tell you he had Multiple Personality Disorder. You sit and listen, shaken up not because the man is dead, but because he could have been saved if it weren't for his tattoo. You don't tell me any of this, but I know it's true.

You put a hand on my shoulder, and it lingers for a moment, but it's quickly gone. You say we should head back to Baker Street, that you could do with some rest. I quickly agree and tell you I'll follow soon, I just have a few things to sort out with the Yarders. You give one of your smiles that says you don't really want to smile, but you want me to believe you're ok. I give you a similar smile and watch you walk off.


	6. Inability

_**A/N: **Just a tiny little update. I haven't been able to write due to the extreme post-Reichenbach ANGST. So, yeah. We have some here. Hopefully I can write something more pleasant next time... Yeah, it's only 650 words._

_**Quote: **"Depression is the inability to construct a future." - Rollo May_

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><p>Things were always difficult when Sherlock Holmes was alive. Difficult was getting to the left-over pasta in the back of the fridge by placing this ear elsewhere, "accidentally" throwing that lung in the garbage, or moving someone's left foot to the dairy drawer, where it should have been in the first place. Difficult meant listening to Sherlock shouting at the tele about why this crime show or that character were completely ridiculous. More than once John found himself studying his flatmate's habits so he could learn how to divert the other's attentions effectively. (John, where's that lung from the other day? Hmm? The lung, the smoker's lung. Where did this mud on my pants come from? Well, you were obviously at the post-office earlier, judging by the brownish colour...) (Oh, come on! DNA tests take longer than this show is trying to make us believe. And those sunglasses! They're not even that use-! You know, I think Mrs. Hudson was in the fridge earlier... What? Mrs. Hudson!)<p>

Now John didn't have a reason to plan ahead on how to distract his flatmate's attention as he had no flatmate. Sherlock was gone. More than gone, Sherlock was...Well, Sherlock was just gone. John existed. He didn't live, he just... breathed in and out. He ate sometimes, when the stomach pains got to him. He bathed when Mrs. Hudson threatened to give him a sponge-bath next time he fell asleep. He forgot to pay his utility bills, and would have to borrow Mrs. Hudson's mobile because he'd forgotten about that bill too. He didn't pay rent because Mrs. Hudson wouldn't bother him about it until Sherlock had been gone for two months.

John didn't practice medicine. It wasn't the lingering grief of being unable to save Sherlock. It wasn't, it really wasn't. Okay, it was. But only slightly. Practicing medicine would mean putting someone else's life in his hands, and the possibility of them losing their life was too much to think of. Practicing medicine would also mean he'd have to think about himself. He'd have to shower and shave regularly, and John just didn't have the energy for that.

All of John's energy went to the past. He spent a lot of time in Afghanistan, stitching up wounds, treating infections, amputating limbs when he had to. Then he'd stop thinking. Nothing would happen, his mind would just go black. As soon as he realized he'd turned off, and start to Thank God for the reprieve, the numerous deaths he'd seen after he started working with Sherlock would be brought to the front of his mind. When all that was over, he'd be blessedly blank once more. He wouldn't thank any deity for the blackness this time. He knew what would happen if he did. Sherlock would jump off of Bart's rooftop. Sherlock would be gone. He'd watch the scene and, from the beginning something would be off.

What always stuck out to John as being off was how Sherlock was still here in those moments. Then, suddenly, he was gone. How could Sherlock Holmes be gone? It was impossible. He would watch Sherlock's death in his mind, telling himself he was asleep, and he'd wake up in just a moment to some disturbing experiment, or the wailing of a violin, or a mopey Sherlock. He'd wake up to anything but this emptiness. But he would tune in to a bleak and abandoned flat. If his stomach wasn't cramping from hunger pains, or if Mrs. Hudson wasn't going to sponge him, he'd start the cycle again. He'd be back in Afghanistan.

When you're stuck in the past so completely, there is no future. There isn't a now. There will only ever be a then.


	7. A Life Depends on It

_**A/N: **I saw this quote and had to do something with it. Something about it just struck me as hilarious. Of course, it didn't really turn out hilarious. Mmmm... Oh, well. Enjoy! Oh! And, as I'll be starting college next week (!) The frequency of these will probably be even more abnormal than they are now. So... yeah. But I have plenty of quotes I want to work on, so I'll write 'em on paper and what-not. Anyway, enough of my babbling. Enjoy! _

_**Quote: **"I couldn't commit suicide if my life depended on it." - George Carlin_

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><p>Sherlock can't watch John. No, he really can't. It's not that he doesn't want to check up on his friend, because he most certainly does. It's that he literally can't check on John without physically being in 221B. John hasn't left their home in, what, two months? Two months, yes. So, Sherlock is standing discreetly in a nearby alley, waiting for any sort of activity from his old home. He's just about to leave for the day as he tosses his cigarette butt on the sidewalk, but that's before Sherlock gives the place on last look and sees the door knob twisting.<p>

He's expecting Mrs. Hudson. It's not Mrs. Hudson. It's John. Sherlock almost runs over to John, exclaiming how thankful he is that John is finally moving on. Then three emotions strike him all at once. Relief. Happiness. And Logic. Most might not consider "Logic" an emotion, but it conflicts with everything Sherlock wants to do just the same. He's so relieved that John is finally out of the flat looking (somewhat) normal he can breathe deeply for once. Yet, how happy he is at seeing John seems to steal his breath. Then his Logic steadies his breath, slows down his heart and brings him back to Earth.

Logic and deduction tell Sherlock John is going Job-Hunting. That is a major improvement. Mrs. Hudson must have gotten on him about the rent. Logic tells him that, as John is out of the flat, he is alright, and he will continue to be alright without Sherlock. Of a sudden, Sherlock isn't relieved. He isn't happy. He feels a little sick, like he could throw up right where he is. He thinks it must have been the breakfast Molly had fixed for him. He's wrong, and he doesn't hurl. He takes the moment, one hand on a knee, the other on the building's wall for support, to breath. He breathes slowly and deeply. All traces of emotion are gone as he straightens up, fixes his coat, and walks towards the end of the alley, where he can successfully escape whatever that was back there.

A moment of madness, surely.

Yet, week after week, as he sees John settle in to a new routine (one that doesn't include him) this madness is upon him. He stops showing up as often as the lunacy ingrains itself deeper and deeper in to his mind. He has far too much work to do to worry about this lunacy, or to seek it out day after day. Soon his visits are only once a week. Eventually once a month.

Finally he's been "dead" for a year. He knows he can act now, he can tell John he's alive. Even thinking about John causes the... feelings, (as he now knows they are no longer lunacy) he's been having to act up. He's nervous. He wants to do this badly, but he doesn't want to do it just as badly. Still, he's been giving some clues to John. Whether or not John has noticed them is anyone's deduction. At the last moment Sherlock decides not to tell John to his face. He'll be nearby, but he doesn't want to get punched, which, considering the shock John will be in, is entirely possible.

So he waits in the alley for John to return home from work. He has his mobile ready, the text prepared. He doesn't leave his initials, this text could only come from one person. Seeing John, he presses send and hears the familiar ping of John's cell-phone. John ignores it. Sherlock is baffled. Why the bloody hell wouldn't John check his message? Oh, he's probably received a hateful amount of texts from Harry asking how he is. Maybe even Mycroft. Surely from Lestrade, and definitely from Molly. Sherlock is left with no other choice but to call.

So he does. He rings John's mobile, and receives no answer. The answer-phone starts and Sherlock hangs up. Damnit! This is not how he imagined this going. He scratches his eyebrow before deciding that he has to tell John in person. So, readying his wig and hunching his back, he hobbles over to 221B, leaning on an old cane (John's old cane) to cross the street. He thinks about knocking on the door, but changes his mind, opening it and squabbling up the stairs.

He opens the door to his old home slowly and sees John looking carefully at the screen of his mobile. He tosses off the wig, the old coat, and straightens. When John's cane hits the floor, the sound forces John to look behind him. His eyes are wide open, and slightly teary. "Sherlock?" He asks, as if the man in the doorway is only a hallucination.

"Yes, John. I'm home." John's mobile falls to the floor, and so does John. Having fainted. If the fall had been a longer one, Sherlock would worry about a concussion. As it is, he walks over to John, stoops, and picks up his mobile, looking at the message on the screen.

_"I couldn't commit suicide if my life depended on it."_


End file.
